


A Swiftly Fading Shadow

by BreTheWriter



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-26
Updated: 2013-05-26
Packaged: 2017-12-13 00:35:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/817875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BreTheWriter/pseuds/BreTheWriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sherlock receives a phone call from a hospital nurse asking him to come visit a dying patient, he never dreamed it would be this one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Swiftly Fading Shadow

He is sitting in front of the fire, alone, when the phone rings. 

Automatically, he turns to the other chair, then flinches almost imperceptively when he sees it is empty and remembers. It has been a year, and he still cannot get used to that other chair being empty. Telling himself not to be such an idiot, he gets up and impatiently snatches the telephone. "Hello?" 

"May I speak to Mr. Sherlock Holmes, please?" 

The voice is a woman's, brisk and no-nonsense. His brain makes the deductions almost without conscious effort: a nurse, likely a head one, at one of the local hospitals. Middle-aged on the side of elderly--probably in her early- to mid-fifties--running towards plump, efficient at her job but without much of a bedside manner. Not London-born--probably of Scotch ancestry, but lived in the city for most of her life. Undoubtedly the younger child of rather old-fashioned parents, unmarried and without children. 

He does not voice this aloud; making deductions has lost some of its pleasure since he no longer has anyone to air them to. Instead, he merely says, "This is he." 

"Mr. Holmes, my name is Eudora Lyne--" 

Score two for deduction--an old-fashioned name and a Scottish surname. 

"--and I am one of the head nurses at St. Bartholomew's Hospital." 

Two more to his credit. But still he does not speak; he does not even smile. The mention of St. Bart's has taken what little pleasure he has out of his deductions. 

"I have a patient in my ward who wishes to speak with you, urgently," Nurse Lyne continues. "She says she has something she needs to tell you. I'm afraid she doesn't have much time left in which to tell it to you. If it is at all convenient, could you come around immediately--and if not, could you come this afternoon?" 

He _does_ smile at that, a quick, involuntary, painful smile. _Come to 221B at once if convenient. If inconvenient come anyway._ Well does he remember sending that text--and that it got an immediate response. But he hadn't expected the memory to hurt so much. Could he send a similar text now and get a similar response? He doesn't know--hasn't tried in almost four months. It is partly that he does not want to be the cause of any trouble...and partly that he fears he _won't_ get the response he hopes for. That it will be inconvenient, and yet he won't come anyway. 

"Mr. Holmes?" 

The nurse's voice is impatient. He starts; he has almost forgotten that she is waiting for a response to his question. He glances at the room. Right now, he is between cases; there has been no official traffic and little private traffic. Surely he can spare an afternoon to visit a woman who wishes to tell him something. And after all, it may be that she has a case for him. 

"Certainly," he tells the nurse. "I can be there in half an hour. To which room am I going?" 

"Oncology, room 814. Thank you. I will tell her to expect you." The nurse rings off before it occurs to him to ask the name of this woman who wishes to see him. 

He sighs as he fetches his coat. It is foolish, he knows, to make deductions without facts. He knows only that a woman in the oncology ward wishes to speak with him. Any speculation as to the nature of the subsequent conversation is useless. Yet it occupies his mind on the walk to the hospital--and keeps him from having to think about the times he has been in this hospital for other reasons. 

In fact it takes him thirty-seven minutes to travel from the front door of 221B Baker Street to the eighth floor oncology ward of St. Bart's. Two women stand at the desk in nurse's uniforms, talking in low voices. One of them--a short, plumpish woman with greying brown hair and a severe look--catches sight of him. "May I help you, sir?" she asks. It is the voice of the nurse to whom he spoke. 

"Nurse Lyne?" he asks, simply for confirmation. "I'm Sherlock Holmes. We spoke on the phone--" 

"Oh, yes." Nurse Lyne turns briskly. "This way." 

She leads him into one of the small, private rooms--a single, with the curtains drawn around the bed to give the occupant privacy. He idly notes that the bulletin board is bare and deduces that the patient is either not permitted gifts or has received very few. The nurse bustles behind the curtain. "He's here," she tells the occupant.

There is some reply, which he cannot hear, and then Nurse Lyne pops out and beckons to him. "She's very weak," she says in a low voice. "Be patient with her." 

He nods and goes around the curtain, mentally rehearsing what he is going to say. When he sees the occupant of the bed, however, any words he may have planned fly out of his head. 

The woman on the bed is very pale and thin, but still (he notes in a detached way) could be considered rather lovely. She is wearing her own nightgown rather than the demeaning hospital gowns, has an IV line snaking into her arm, and is hooked up to the usual machines monitoring her breathing, heart rate, and so on. Her breathing is ragged and shallow, but her eyes, fixed on him, are perfectly clear. 

And he knows her. Oh, yes, he knows her, and he hates her, though he would never admit such to any living soul. Mary Morstan Watson. 

"Mr. Holmes," she murmurs. 

His fist clenches. "Mrs. Watson," he says tersely. 

Her eyes close briefly, then open and meet his. "I'm dying," she says clearly. 

Unexpectedly, he feels a pang. He had deduced that, of course--Nurse Lyne had said that Mary doesn't have much time left. But to hear the words said...his heart aches. Not for _her._ For John. They have only just had their first wedding anniversary, and now he is losing his wife. 

"I wanted...to see you," she continues. "I need...to say..." She takes a deep breath. "I'm sorry." 

The words are so unexpected and incongruous that he can't say anything. His mouth falls open slightly, and he just blinks at her. She's _sorry?_ For what? For dying? 

She seems to understand his confusion. "I...shouldn't have...said yes. When...when he asked. I...knew better." 

He is even more confused than before. "What do you mean?" 

She gestures to the chair. He shakes his head slightly--he would prefer to stand--and she nods once before gathering herself to speak. "He knew," she explains. Her voice is scarcely above a whisper, but he knows, somehow, that it is not through fear of being overheard--it is because she cannot muster up enough air to speak louder. "I told him...I was dying. He knew...I didn't have long. And he...still asked me. And I said...yes. Forgive me." 

He understands now. She is apologising for saying yes when John asked her to marry him. And yet...he _doesn't_ understand. "Why should you apologise for that?" he asks, coldly. 

"Because I...took him away...from you," she says simply. "You...need him. And he needs...you. I knew that." 

A lump rises in his throat. He shakes his head, not in denial of her words, but in denial of the unexpected compassion he feels. He hates this woman--for exactly the reasons she has just stated--but he feels the need to say, "He loves you very much, or he wouldn't have asked you." 

She shakes her head slowly, which surprises him. "Not the...way he...loves you," she manages. "I tried...to encourage him to...stay friends. At least. Help you with...your cases. But when I...had to be admitted..." She smiles slightly. "He wouldn't...leave." 

He is a little stunned. Just as he has not texted John in some time, so also has John not initiated contact. He has blamed Mary--but he never thought it was because of something like this. "John's a good man," he says quietly, "and a loyal one." 

"I know," she says softly. "When he asked...me to marry him...I tried to...argue. I said...we wouldn't have...very long, and...the pain would be...too much for him. But he...insisted. He said...the choice between...what was right...and what was easy...was a hard one. But he wanted...me to have...something to remember." 

That sounds exactly like John. Ordinarily that thought would make him smile, but right now he can't seem to remember how. Instead, he simply stares at Mary. 

She closes her eyes again and takes several breaths. Glancing at her monitors, he realises that she truly does not have long to live. Suddenly, he wonders where John is. 

Mary opens her eyes at last and looks at him. Her face is anxious. "I never...wanted to hurt...either of you," she says. "Don't think I...married him for...money or...anything. I have a...trust fund. The hospital is...using it to...pay for my care. What's left will...be turned over...to John...so don't worry." 

He shakes his head wordlessly. The thought had crossed his mind briefly when he first heard that Mary had known all along that she was sick--but she had told him _before_ he proposed, so he had quickly struck the thought from his mind. He has not gotten to where he is by being an unjust man. 

She nods briefly, then tries again to speak. "I asked him...not to tell...anyone. It was...our secret. I thought you...might have deduced, but..." 

And it is somewhat to his shame that he hadn't. John never indicated, by word or action, that there was anything amiss in his married life--but then, he has to admit that he went out of his way to avoid talking about John's married life. If he pretended Mary did not exist, he could forget, for the brief time they worked on the cases, that there was an interloper in their relationship. All he says is, "John can keep a secret remarkably well when he puts his mind to it." 

Something in her eyes tells him she understands what he hasn't said. "I know I...don't deserve you...to forgive me," she says, her voice wavering a little. "But please...forgive _him._ " 

The words are like a physical blow to his stomach. _Forgive him_. Has he been angry at John for getting married, for leaving Baker Street--for leaving _him?_ Yes, he realises, he has been. He has been angry...and afraid. Afraid that John's loyalties have shifted, afraid that John loves someone more than him. 

But now he sees that he fell victim to what he had cautioned himself against earlier--the folly of deducing with incomplete evidence. He had believed himself to possess all the facts, and so deduced that John had left him. Now, with the full and complete truth before him, he sees everything. John did not leave him. John made a sacrifice, a choice, to give this pale and fragile woman now before his eyes a year of happiness. How can he stay angry? 

He clears his throat. "I don't see that there is anything that needs forgiveness," he says, his voice slightly husky. He pauses, and then adds, "For either of you." 

Her eyes soften, and she seems to release a tension he never realised she was holding. "Thank you," she whispers. 

"Sherlock?" 

The familiar voice behind him makes him start. He turns to see John, standing in the gap of the bed curtains, his eyebrows raised in surprise. 

"John," he says, too emotionally raw from the conversation he has just had with Mary to disguise his feelings at seeing his friend again. 

John's eyes flick from him to Mary and back. "What are you...?" he begins. 

Mary smiles when she sees him. "I...asked him to...come," she whispers. "I wanted to...tell him...myself." 

"I'll go," he offers. Something in Mary's face tells him that she doesn't have much time left. 

John gives him a quick look, but surprisingly, it is Mary who shakes her head. "No...stay. Please." She gives him a look of pleading. "Don't let him...be alone...anymore." 

He feels a lump in his throat again as he realises what she is saying, and what she is asking. What she is trusting him to do. "I won't," he promises. 

She nods, then looks at John, who is at her side. He takes her hand; her fingers flex against his briefly. A strange look crosses her face. "It's so beautiful," she whispers. 

He looks at John, who looks as puzzled as he does. Mary's eyes turn back to John's. "John...goodnight," she whispers. 

John's eyes are bright with unshed tears, but he manages a smile. "Goodnight," he replies softly. 

She smiles and closes her eyes. The pillow seems to sink slightly, and the heart monitor changes from a steady beeping to a flat tone. 

John trembles, but the tears do not fall. Instead, he brushes the hair back from her forehead and kisses it lightly, places her hand on her stomach, and steps back. Behind them, he can hear a nurse's voice, shouting, "Doctor!" A moment later and he is swept aside, as is John, as two nurses and a white-coated doctor come in and bend over the prostrate woman. He knows they are wasting their time, but says nothing. 

One of the nurses notices John and waves for him to leave. "Go to the waiting room--go on." 

He follows John out of the room. The old soldier is still straight-backed, the tears remaining in his eyes. He admires his strength. 

In the waiting room, John walks over to the window and leans his arm against it, resting his forehead on his arm. "She knew," he says quietly. "She knew when we met that she had cancer." 

He nods. "I know. She told me that." Hesitantly, he closes the distance between them, places his hand on John's shoulder. 

John covers the hand with his own, gripping tightly. "I just...when I asked her out, I never expected to ask her to marry me. But when she told me how little time she had left, I...I had to do _something._ " John raises his eyes, searching his face, looking for--what? "She would never be able to have children, never live to see her silver wedding anniversary. She was lucky to have lived to see her _first_ wedding anniversary. I...I just wanted to give her _something_ to hold on to. I wanted to make her last months...special." John's voice takes on a pleading tone. "You understand what I mean?" 

And suddenly, he does. Like Mary, John is asking for his forgiveness. He squeezes John's shoulder lightly. "I understand," he says softly. "You did the right thing." 

John's face relaxes. "Thank you," he says quietly. 

Before either of them can say more, the doctor enters. John looks at him with a question in his eyes, and the doctor simply says, "I'm sorry, Mr. Watson." 

John bites his lip, nods. The doctor continues, "The plan you and your wife filed when she was admitted lists the funeral home she wanted to use. We'll release the--we'll release her to them directly, and they'll give you a call when she arrives. You can probably go in tomorrow and begin making arrangements." 

"Thank you, Doctor," John says softly. The doctor nods and leaves. 

John stays calm until the door closes behind him. And then, at last, the proud soldier breaks. The tears fall, the posture crumples. 

Obeying an instinct he hadn't been aware he possessed, he puts his arms around John. John buries his face in his chest, and he holds the shorter man close, resting his cheek comfortingly on the top of John's head. He has tears in his eyes, too, but he acknowledges that it is not for the woman now lying dead in a hospital room--it is sympathy for the man he holds in his arms. John is his heart, and he cannot stand to see it breaking. 

At last the sobs lessen, the trembling ceases. He draws back slightly, though still keeping his arm around John's shoulders. He remembers his promise to Mary, though in truth he would likely have done this anyway. 

"Come on, John," he says softly. "Let's go home."


End file.
